


Come Rain or Shine

by donteatmyfingerprints



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Elemental Magic, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:29:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3322391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donteatmyfingerprints/pseuds/donteatmyfingerprints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elementals, AU.</p><p>When the days grow warmer, she knows Shaw will be approaching, and she has come to delight in the little ball of heat in her chest that Shaw sweeps into her, as though her reach was not limited to Man, as though she could bring summer into Root’s core as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay regarding all questions.
> 
> 1) It's kind of free-form so don't expect me to follow any particular mythology or anything particular lore. I'm just going to make everything up as I go.
> 
> 2) Therefore, certain things may be unclassified or not gone into detail specifically, because it would ruin the story if I were busy explaining technicalities. Also, considering the POV I'm describing, no one alive for hundreds of years would contemplate on details they already know/ assume.
> 
> 3) I might have a tendency to switch between olden use of language and the way we speak now, because I believe that a being that has been around for a long time will be comfortable switching between languages, or accents, even, depending on what they feel like saying at the moment. Sometimes even if we know a proper term for an object, we still default back to colloquial terms when we are speaking to someone from our hometown, yes? So any switching between expression of old and more modern terms is not really something I give much thought to.
> 
> 4) I'm also happy to take any suggestions if it appears that I have inconsistencies or if the story can be improved.
> 
> 5) Thank you (:

Time bears no influence in the endless lives of Elementals, but Root takes savage pleasure in days leading up to the months of summer and fall. When the days grow warmer, she knows Shaw will be approaching, and she has come to delight in the little ball of heat in her chest that Shaw sweeps into her, as though her reach was not limited to Man, as though she could bring summer into Root’s core as well.

 

Root feels the burn in the mainland of East Asia and as always, she makes a cheeky deviation to seek out Shaw. She won’t stay long enough for Mother to nag anyway, and besides, being Mother’s favourite surely has to allow her _some_ privileges.

 

Root follows the trail of warmth, finding Shaw leaning onto a thick tree trunk, at the top of a plateau in a clearing of a mountain overlooking the main city. The dry ground simmers, heat waves rising in blurred curls, like looking through a foggy glass. Like perfume, coaxed from a woman’s skin. Root does appreciate Shaw’s skill. It was hard to taper her own element, trying to suppress the telltale dewy smell, but she does enjoy sneaking up on Shaw. Well, _attempts_ to sneak up on Shaw.

 

“How long are you going to stand there staring at me?” Shaw’s gruff voice deadpans, not even bothering to look behind her. Root doesn’t suppress her smile, stepping out of the shadows of the bamboo forest, and into the clearing.

 

“Just a minute more, if you don’t mind,” Root says, enjoying the scowl Shaw gives her, getting annoyed enough to turn back and glare.

 

“What are you doing here, Root?” Shaw asks, like she always does, and Root gives the same evasive answer each time. It’s routine. It's a little game they play.

 

“Just taking a little detour, checking up on my favourite cat, the usual,” Root shrugs, coming up beside Shaw and shooting her a lazy grin. Shaw appears comfortable with her back on the trunk, and shifts her weight to lean back more, a foot coming up to prop against the tree. She stares impassively over the city, but they are far enough that the incessant noise doesn’t reach them.

 

“You’re going to unbalance the seasons if you keep this up.”

 

“Why Shaw, I had no idea you were so devoted to Mother.”

 

“Mother?” Shaw grunts, making a face. Root grins. It was not uncommon for Shaw and Mother to have differing opinions.

 

“ _Ahhh_ , so it’s just duty then. One of the things I adore about you,” Root quips, purposefully sending Shaw a look that was just a little too much, laying it on too thick. Thick enough that Shaw wouldn’t read too much into their conversation, that would make Shaw just roll her eyes.

 

A little drizzle was starting up around them, and Shaw squints up at the sky doubtfully.

 

“Now look what you did.”

 

“Are you afraid of a little rain, Shaw?” Root teases, but Shaw sends her narrowed eyes, and Root knows better than to come between Shaw and her unbending rigidity when it comes to her job.

 

“Oh don’t be a wet blanket, that’s supposed to be me,” Root jokes, “besides, it’s still spring here. It’s perfectly reasonable for a light shower this time of year.” Root watches Shaw’s shoulders relax as she seems to decide that it’s a minute detail to be fighting about and concedes. Root swallows, and licks her lips.

 

There haven’t been many times that she wasn’t in complete control of herself, but around Shaw, around all that warm and heat that seems to go _straight_ to her head, and sometimes Root finds herself behaving recklessly. So Root turns from Shaw’s side and leans in, crowding Shaw against the broad tree trunk with her body. She rests one palm beside Shaw’s head, and feels the steady breathing of the tree resounding in her veins.

 

Shaw doesn’t so much as twitch, cocking her head and looking up at Root, waiting for her next move. Root’s height blocks out the sun a little. Root grins, and bites her lip, eyes darting down to Shaw’s. Root dips her head, and Shaw’s gaze drops to Root’s lips.

 

Temptations always run a little loose when she’s around Shaw, but Root is no fool. And she’s a little tease of her own. With Shaw distracted, Root’s other hand reaches out, slowly sliding under Shaw’s coat and shirt, giving Shaw plenty to time to disagree if she so desired. But she doesn’t touch Shaw, hovering an inch away. Their lips are a breath away, and then Root brings her nails down, scratching on the surface of Shaw’s burning skin.

 

It spurs Shaw into action, grabbing Root by the hips and pulling Root toward her, so that they are pressed together with the steady heartbeat of the tree behind them. Root’s knees manage to not buckle, barely staying upright with the heat that being in direct contact with Shaw always brings. It’s a heady tonic, and Root vaguely thinks of the lava running through the life-source of Shaw, the elemental power Shaw wields, over the lands and over Root herself.

 

Shaw’s tongue touches hers, and Root groans with the potent sensation, wrapping her arms around Shaw’s back, digging her fingers in, urgency almost crippling her. A thunder rumbles nearby, loud and dangerous, and Shaw shoves her backward. It takes some moments for Root to realize that its not sweat covering Shaw’s face, but rainwater. Shaw’s hair is wet, and so is hers.

 

“This is not a light shower, Root." What is it about Shaw that makes Root lose control so easily? 

 

"You’re ruining the weather,” Shaw growls, annoyed, but the heaving of her chest weakens her glare and Root grins at this. Root looks back up at the sky, and knows it’s probably time for her to go. She’ll start a drought in the desert of the Middle East if she doesn’t bring rain back there soon. She reins herself in, and tells herself there’s always next time. Time is an endless stretch for them, after all, even though she’s a little resentful of that sometimes.

 

“I should go,” Root says wistfully, as she collects herself. But she doesn’t yet take flight, and Shaw doesn’t insist. They stare in comfortable silence at the bright lights of the city down below, watching Man busy about their short lives. Slowly, the rain descends to a light drizzle as the roaring in Root’s veins calms.

 

The sun is cheerful over the spring day, Shaw’s natural element flaring brightly as Root pushes down hers.

 

“We’re sun and rain, Sameen,” Root says easily, nudging Shaw to look up at the semi-circle of seven colours, as though from Mother’s paintbrush Herself, splashed across the sky.

 

“Without me, who'll help you make the rainbows?”

 

Root winks at Shaw before she turns, feeling the warm of Shaw’s element seeping out of her pores. The warmth under her ribs remain when she leaves.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Harold Finch strolls toward a field of corn, watching farmers till the land. He sniffs the air. The harvest comes as it always has, but the men do not reek of sweat.

 

Because he always brings a breeze, and the coolness of the wind is not unfamiliar to Harold, it takes him several minutes to realize that the dampness in the air is not caused by him.

 

He frowns, but there is a swooshing sound behind him and he recognizes the footfalls.

 

He carries a limp that has accompanied him from beyond the days of her being, and though Root has never asked him about it, it does make him easy to detect, if the smell of flowers and fresh soil doesn’t betray his presence first.

 

“Hello Harry,” Root greets the elder, while she marvels at the grass cooing and trembling in barely repressed excitement at her feet, pleased when near its wielder. The magic that Harold grants the world never ceases to amaze her, the way he breathes such life into the earth.

 

“Ms. Groves.” Harold is polite as always, despite Root’s attempts to solidify a more informal friendship. They are after all, complimentary Elementals- the earth and rain. But she doesn’t mind, she knows Harold’s way.

 

“I hear there’s been some trouble in the North,” he says lightly, but doesn’t yet register the strange feeling creeping along the edges of his skin. “Is it Mr. Greer?”

 

Root beams at him.

 

“Yes. Greer is determined to control the titans, apparently. Humans have an amazing inclination toward inventions regarding technology. They’re proving quite the threat to your pet dog.”

 

Harold bristles at her term, the grass at her feet rippling back ever so slightly, but concern wins out, and he asks, “Is Mr. Reese alright?”

 

“He was in the midst of hibernation, and they attacked him in slumber. So I think he’s a little worse for wear.” She cocks her head to the right, as she hears the whispers of Mother echo in her ear.

 

Root stretches, pulling into herself and reaching for the energy required to unfurl the black leathery wings on her back. Harold looks at her and warily glances back at the farmers.

 

“What? You didn’t think we were going to walk, did you? Oh _relax_ , mortals so rarely notice what’s right in front of them.”

 

Harold takes her cue, and proceeds accordingly, and Root feels the ground shiver as he draws upon his power. Root takes a moment to appreciate the smoothness of his wings as they spread from his back, how dapper they look. Harold has always been meticulous and well groomed, and it reflects nicely on the gleaming surface of his wings. She always liked seeing them this way, even though they rarely present themselves as such. Even now, wings raised, its _hardly_ justice to their true forms. But Mother insists that they remain in most part, like the humans, and Root so loved to please Mother.

 

Now, what she’d do to see _Shaw_ in her true form… She shakes the thought away, and beats her wings, just once.

 

“We’ve been summoned. Leave your flowers, Harry, and buckle up. Mother’s given us a mission.”

 

* * *

 

 

When they reach the North Pole, Root is surprised to see Shaw there already. The snow melts around Shaw, and she is scowling at them unhappily, hair matted across her forehead. Her clothes look soaked. Root tries not to laugh because Shaw looks like a wet dog left outdoors, for lack of a better term.

 

“This is stupid,” Shaw says without preamble, glaring at them pointedly, “I can’t even walk. Do you know how difficult it is to traipse through two feet of snow when it just keeps melting around you? I can barely walk without slipping.”

 

“Your hair looks ridiculous,” Root says cheerily in response. Shaw ignores her, and looks to Harold instead.

 

“I can’t find John, and he’s not responding to my calls either. And I can’t very well melt everything to locate him.”

 

“I know the general direction of Mr. Reese’s usual spots, so we’ll start there,” Harold says, gesturing. Root grins.

 

“I think we might have to do this the old fashioned way, then,” Root chirps.

 

“Excellent,” Shaw grumbles, but Root and Harold’s presence have cooled the air considerably, and Harold seems to have hardened the ground beneath them for Shaw’s benefit, so she makes her way through the snow easier now. Root steps into stride beside her, with Harold leading the way, hair bouncing in the draft.

 

It takes them three tries, the first two places that they searched coming up empty.

 

But a little too late, Root feels the pricking of the cold on her neck to be a warning, and not John’s usual welcome. She turns to Shaw automatically, and sees her worried expression mirrored there. But Harold is ahead, and everything from there happens a little too fast.

 

“Harold, wait, it’s a trap-” Her cry is cut off as something zaps her, a thousand little bolts of lightning, nothing like the ones she conjures in her storms, ionizing itself into her bloodstream. She hears a little grunt of “fuck” somewhere on her left. She collapses down into the snow, and looks up to see Harold and Shaw in the same positions, lying sprawled on the floor.

 

Above them there is sudden shouting and more electricity shocks her system. Pain wrecks through Root, like a thousand needles are piercing her skin. She pants through it, looking up. Men surround them, and then three nets are thrown over them, the pain in her system increasing threefold. She almost screams in the agony, eyes squeezing shut as she convulses.

 

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” The smug, silky voice cuts through the pain, and Root weakly manages to open her eyes, looking into the cold ones of a middle-aged old man with greying hair, malicious intent clear in his survey.

 

John Greer turns to a blonde at his side, who is cocking a strange looking stun gun at Shaw.

 

“Don’t be overzealous Martine, we want them alive, you know,” he says, teasingly. Root loathes the smugness in the man’s voice. She tries to call the lightning down, pulling on her power, and is startled when it doesn’t come to her bidding. But she doesn’t have time to think about that, because pain flares against her skin again, and she sees her wrist start to darken.

 

She calls again, stretching her reach into the sky, but so far from the heavens requires more effort than she’s already exerting to strain on the painful nets around her, and the skin around her hands darken further. She is alarmed, and has right to be.

 

The blood-seal carved and inked into their skin in order to contain their respective elements to their bodies are not easily undone, and she doesn’t remember having her tattoos raised without her will so _quickly_ before.

 

On the ground, she cannot see if Harold and Shaw are experiencing the same distress.

 

“Amazing, isn’t it?” He turns back to Root, waving his own gun. “It took me nearly five years to build these. Curious, what one can do, given the right inspiration. You control the storms, do you not? Tell me, how does it feel to have your _friends_ turn against you?”

 

“This lightning,” she spits venomously, panting against the exertion the net cackles against her, “is unnatural.”

 

Shaw struggles somewhere beside her, and Root hears her tossing, before the woman, Martine, zaps her again with that aberrant electricity. But the pain in her own body overwhelms her, and the last thing she sees are cold, grey eyes, boring into her own.

 


	3. Chapter 3

When Root blinks into consciousness, she is in the dark. She is slumped against a steel wall, and when she tries to move she realizes her hands are bound behind her. She tries to get to her feet, and is relieved to find that her feet are not bound, before a sudden pain shoots up her right arm. She hears the grinding of bone, loud in her veins that stretch from that arm to her neck. She thinks she makes a small choking noise.

 

“Don’t move,” Root almost jumps at the voice, if she hadn’t spent centuries deliberately pursuing its owner, “I think your shoulder bone is out of place. I thought I heard it slip earlier, but I wasn’t sure before.”

 

“Shaw?” Root whispers into the darkness. There’s a slight shuffle a few meters from her, and she’s distantly surprised to notice that Shaw’s voice is coming from a position that indicates that Shaw’s, well, lying down. Her breathing is strained.

 

“Yeah. And don’t try to break free of your restraints either, I learned that the hard way.”

 

“Where are we?”

 

“A steel cage, of some sort. I’m not sure. John and Harold have not yet risen. We’ve been here for around a candle mark, I’m not certain.” Root squints into the dark, and adjusts her vision. She can see very dimly that there are two more bodies in front of her, on the opposite wall.

 

There’s a faint scent of illness in the air, the sickly sweet smell of decay. It was a grave thing, to injure an Elemental, and their blood carries a distinct scent. It’s a fail-safe embedded into their life-source, meant to warn others to flee if any of them should fall, and Root has not often been faced with it. It fills her with an urge to throw up.

 

“That would be John,” Shaw supplies, reading her correctly. “I think he’s wounded.” Shaw’s voice is uncharacteristically laboured.

 

“Shaw? You can’t move, can you?” Root asks worriedly, wondering just how badly Shaw had injured herself trying to remove her bonds, and Shaw takes a while to reply. Root imagines her pride is a little stung.

 

“This far from the sun? Not to mention you and John, cramping my style? It’s quite a challenge,” Shaw grouses, but Root is relieved that Shaw’s at least able to manage a joke.

 

Root worries about Harold. His body is not accustomed to battle, and she wonders if the strain of the nets and electrical stun-guns have proven too much for him. The last one he had been involved in was in the fall of Jericho, and that had been centuries ago. Even then, he was tasked with the regrowth of the land, and less in the war that occurred beforehand. It takes another candle mark before John wakes with a croak.

 

Root imagines he tried to use his powers, because he proceeds to jerk rather violently and crumples further on the ground.

 

“What in hell’s nine worlds?”

 

“John, stop,” Root says, gritting her teeth, and pushes to her feet, ignoring the burn in her shoulder with her movements. She wavers unsteadily on her feet, then stretches out to touch the icy walls, running her bound hands over the surface. At this point, she’s looking for anything that could help them.

 

“Yeah, I don’t know how they’re doing it, but we’ve been effectively neutralized. And if you try anything funny, you get a nice electric eel for lunch. And it’s alive. In your stomach. And this is coming from someone who loves sushi too.” Root tries to follow Shaw’s voice, starting to get worried about how light she’s making the situation. She almost trips over an arm, before quickly realizing that it is Shaw, and drops down to one knee. Her bound hands wander, and she finds Shaw’s neck. Her pulse is steady, if a little fast, beneath Root’s fingers, but still relief floods Root.

 

“John, can you move?” He grunts an assent. “Get over here. I need to help Shaw, and my shoulder’s dislocated.” It takes him a few tries, and Root does her best to ignore the smell of John’s blood up close and fight the nearly overpowering urge to flee. It would do them no favours if she allows her body to run with panic, even if every basal instinct is almost forcing her to.

 

At the very least, it gives her something to focus on through the shocking throbbing when he pops her shoulder back into place, even with his hands bound.

 

“That was a kick,” she huffs, managing a little raised eyebrow, but John knows a thank you when he hears one from Root, so he says nothing. Instead he gets back up and walks around slowly, surveying the box of solid steel they find themselves in, while Root tries to support Shaw up to at least a sitting position.

 

She feels for Shaw’s torso, and with a slight startle she feels skin that is just barely, uneven. She trails her fingers along the keloids, because it is too dark to see, and realizes that on Shaw’s forearm, there is a winding trail of twisting and curling tattoos like raised hackles, forming shapes of old alchemic symbols she hasn’t seen since even before Hellenistic Egypt.

 

Shaw must be under more strain that they had all realized, being trapped in a metal cage in the North Pole, so far from the heat and sun that she flourished in.

 

Root is so staggered at the tattoos being manifested, and worried at its implications, that she forgets how _intimate_ an action it is to touch Shaw’s inked seals like this. Shaw twitches, ever so slightly, and Root jerks her fingers back. Root flushes and swallows, mumbling a flustered apology.

 

“How many seals did you break?” She whispers quietly. It is not something so freely discussed, however, so Shaw grunts at her, and focuses on sitting up, not replying.

 

With the pain in her shoulder gone, Root finds it easier to focus and reaches out with her sway, but there is an odd quality in the air. Suffocating, like her awareness of the world was muted and forced inward. As though she was in a silent room, a vacuum, where the silence is loud and pressing in. But it’s not silence that’s pressing in on her, but something else, like her powers are being pushed into an area too small to fit its volume. It makes the inside of her bones ache. She cannot find Mother’s presence.

 

“It’s a test, I should think,” comes a gravelly voice, hoarse with disuse. Their attention snaps toward Harold. Root hadn’t realized he was awake. Good.

 

“But for what?” Shaw asks, wheezing. Root is still kneeling, holding Shaw against her front, letting Shaw rest her weight on her while sitting up.

 

“I think it’s safe to presume that they want to see how we’re going to react. I’m not surprised if we’re being monitored,” Harold says evenly. He touches the walls, rests his palms fully on them. “It’s some alloy of aluminum... and there’s adamantine metals swirling inside. Its atoms are rather confused, by the sound of it.”

 

“It’s blocking out our reach to the outside,” John says, but his breathing pattern suggests that he is thankfully, not hindered very much by his injury anymore.

 

“Our shackles seem to be made of the same alloy, which would explain why we can’t seem to break out of them. But they seem to have an added element, although I cannot place what. I can only hear its cry, and it appears to be, somewhat chaotic… Are you alright, Mr. Reese?”

 

“Yeah, I think the bleeding’s stopped.”

 

“So, what happened, John?” Shaw asks, direct as usual.

 

“An ambush. They drilled through seven metres of ice. I think they released some sort of hallucinogenic gas,” he pauses, “I thought the sounds were polar bears.” Root thinks he sounds a little embarrassed, or miffed.

 

“Alright, no point crying over… melted ice, so to speak,” Root smirks at Shaw’s inability to resist the little jab, “but we gotta find a way out of here. And kill that damn human. He’s been a pain in my ass for way too long.”

 

“Root, can you contact Mother?” John asks. Root shakes her head, then remembers that John cannot really see her.

 

“She won’t answer. I can’t feel Her.”

 

“How strange,” Harold says thoughtfully, “that I cannot feel the earth. I cannot sense the life outside this box.”

 

Shaw shifts against her, but Root doesn’t let go. Instead, She moves backward so that she doesn’t have to kneel anymore, sitting against a wall, and pulling Shaw along so that Shaw can comfortably lean back.

 

“The weird thing is, when I woke up earlier, I had the time to walk around a little. Does anyone notice that there isn’t a door?” Shaw mutters, annoyed, giving up the struggle and letting Root support her weight. Simultaneously, they all look up at darkness that seems to stretch for a long, long way.

 

And only then, with Shaw leaning her back on Root’s front fully, that Root realizes: Shaw’s skin is not searing like she remembers, that it has been steadily, gradually dropping in temperature since she’d awoke. It’s still hotter than Root's own skin, but far from Shaw’s normal blistering heat. She hadn’t noticed before, distracted by their situation and the disorientation, but she certainly notices now.

 

“Guys,” Shaw continues uncertainly, “how far do you think we’re below ground?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

To conserve energy, and not to give away their strength (or weakness) on the chance that someone is watching them, they keep relatively silent after that, turning over their predicaments in their minds.

 

The suffocation of their bindings hold, and they progressively lose energy, because the bindings aren’t just trapping them in place, but like Root suspected earlier, it’s also pushing _in_. It’s trying to force their power back onto their bodies that aren’t able to handle the stress, like trying to crush all your bones into a small box. The ache in Root that she felt previously becomes a steady throb that doesn’t let up, and it’s becoming harder and harder to breathe.

 

It is difficult to measure the solar cycle in their cell, but Root imagines it has been roughly two days when she hears the sound of metal creaking, and then a hissing gush of air pressure, similar to the sounds made by hydraulics at the opening and release of a catch. There is a loud metallic groan as something above creaks to life, and the four of them, from their respective corners of the cell, tense and look up.

 

If her calculations are right, and it has been two days since they’ve fed or had access to water, then their bodies will be weaker than they are used to, even without the bindings restraining their elements. She casts a glance at Shaw, but Shaw had already crawled and buried into herself hours ago (at Root’s insistence) in order to conserve her energy, hiding in Elemental rest. Her eyes remain closed and she had not so much as twitched in the last few hours.

 

The wall a steady press behind her back, Root prepares herself for an assault, instinctively tightening her arm around Shaw.

 

But it isn’t something being lowered down, Root realizes, when the walls creak and shift. Their entire cell was being raised up.

 

Root feels the sea level and the lands before they reach it, and she can taste the familiar moisture in the air indicating their elevation to ground level. Another hiss of hydraulics, and an entire wall lifts upward, causing John to back away from it.

 

But the wall that lifts reveal another glass wall, and Root guesses it’s several inches thick as well, likely imbued with whatever unnatural magic humans weld over the sciences, and Greer is no fool as to allow them escape.

 

Root gently nudges Shaw away from her, and lets her rest on the wall, and gets to her feet.

 

Through the glass Root sees a long corridor, lit with lights so bright they seem to glow blue. The walls along the stretch are a pristine, sharp white. And the woman from earlier, Martine, stands in front of twenty or so other armed guards, her posture straight and proud like a soldier’s. She smirks at them, and then nods a signal.

 

The floor they had been standing on becomes a minefield of lightning suddenly, electricity shooting up from their feet up, and Root can feel every bolt and sizzle as they traverse up her spine, can feel them like her children, cackling gleefully as they fly, crippling her and weakening her knees. But her children, oh her beautiful children, they do not carry themselves like this perverse atrocity. They have never felt this disobedient nor this malicious in their intent. She chokes on the abomination, this cruel charge of ions that she doesn’t recognize.

 

A muffled groan from Root’s side tell her that Shaw has come to, and none too happy about the rude awakening.

 

When the floor powers down again, Root panting heavily, she looks to see John and Harold slouching at the far end of the wall as well. It was only then that she realized that none of them were wearing shoes. It wasn’t an observation she would notice usually, since Root herself preferred to go barefoot. Only Harold picked up the strange human habit of wearing shoes around four hundred years ago. She hadn’t noticed since they awoke that he wasn’t wearing his.

 

John seems to have come to the same conclusion as her, and when the floor powers up again, in a fit of gallantry, he projects outward, pushing away the electricity at their feet in a bid to protect Harold.

 

“John, no-” Harold’s warning comes too late, as suddenly John’s eyes widen and he falls to one knee, and Root feels a different charge twitching in the air. She reacts without thinking, sliding a tendril of power outward from her palms herself as she reaches toward him.

 

The effect is instantaneous. Instead of the earlier bonds that seemed to be crushing her inward, Root suddenly finds her power sliding out from her faster than she can control, and her system flies into a panic, attempting to sever the connection. She jerks backward, pulling desperately back into herself, and with a snap she feels the taut strain break.

 

Her own eyes widen and she stumbles a few steps back, and gapes at her palms. “What in Mother’s name-?” Raised tattoos line her wrists and the back of her hands, her ancient Eastern river symbols clear as day as they form, curling to the tips of her fingers, black and vivid. She checks her arms, but the swirling vortex and maps, of hurricanes and storms, remain invisible, her skin pale. She cannot see through the jeans she is wearing, but she feels the elegantly drawn steps to the original rain dance that litter the span of her thighs remain untouched, and safe.

 

Root knows every cell in her body, has come to familiarize herself with each individual atom, controls every speck of power in her body. She has had centuries to learn. But the tips of her fingers, her entire hands feel less, somehow. There is a tingling inside, like when your hands go numb with pins and needles, after being denied blood for too long and then allowing them to suddenly flood back. But this feels like her hands were missing an entire army of molecules, as though an entire piece of flesh, bone and tendon had been removed, and then the insides remaining rearranged to form something quite alien.

 

Root feels a weight of dread in her gut, because that last bit has never happened to her before. She clenches and unclenches her fists, feeling only mortality between the creases of her palms. Whatever these mortals have managed, this last piece of science, it is not weakening her powers. It is _stealing_ them.

 

“Well, isn’t that quite something?” Martine says, looking not at them, but a device with a screen resting between her hands. She holds it up to Root, tauntingly. She is smiling. The screen reads energy levels, and there are four bars, unfilled. Two of those bars are occupied, to a small measure, barely five percent of the entire empty bar. 

 

The two days underground, in captivity, it seems, had been merely to weaken them, so that they could reach this next step.

 

Root growls, baring her teeth, a rumble inside her chest she didn’t know she had the anger for. Fangs that haven’t been released for over a century itch to emerge, her gums aching with the force to hold them back, but she will not give the indecent humans the satisfaction. They were treating them like _batteries_.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There some parts from here on out that I kind of envisioned in a Western Indian/ old Jamaican accent, simply because gods and mortals don't always speak the same way. So don't be surprised if suddenly there's a part where it sounds like my english is all broken.
> 
> And also, IDK why I'm pretending to be coy and uploading one chapter each day... because I've already written the whole thing HAHAHAHA.

An hour of electrical shocks later, their bodies are barely able to stand, but they hold their ground. And they do not release any more energy. Martine grows increasingly agitated at their refusal to cooperate. Shaw delights in aggravating that woman.

 

“You’re the one who showed us your ace in the hole, _human_ ,” Shaw taunts, condescendingly, and Root would hit her if she had the energy for it. Martine frowns at them. The men behind her are more relaxed now, complacent of their superior position. They have lowered their guns in the hour that Martine continues to provoke them with electrical impulses, trying to force them to use their powers.

 

It seems that only when they expand their abilities, can them powers be taken. In dormant state, blood-sealed by Mother’s own hand, them tattoos hold steadfast to the duty them charged with- to contain it to their respective bodies, rendering them master of their elements. It allowed their own elements to respond and obey their calling, recognizing them as their parent, bending to them will.

 

Mother made sure the seals were strong, weaving into them the force of Shim will, and Her promises to take care of them. Shim sewed into them secrets of the elements them was charged with employing, and crafted with great care, before the Great Beginning, long before Mother had found the souls suitable for carrying them burdens.

 

Although Harold inherited him ink much earlier than Root did, hers was not bestowed upon her with any less care. Root trusts Mother, and her faith was always rewarded handsomely. Here, even now, she trusts that they will not break, and Root worries how long they will be kept here if they do not give Greer what he wants.

 

Martine narrows her eyes at them, and cranks up the power of the sizzling floor. It burns and it burns and it burns through Root, so it takes her a second to notice that Martine is saying something to another guard now.

 

“-yes, yes, I think we’ll have to separate them. Give them a large enough dosage to knock them out, then take the tall skinny one first.”

 

Panic and fear causes Root to swallow, and she looks back at Shaw instinctively. Shaw’s expression turn hard and cold, and she feels a momentary glimmer of _something_ rise in her chest at the protective look. She wonders how scared she must look to have Shaw so angered.

 

They must have turned the power up high, because the floor takes some time as it charges up, ions buzzing excitedly, and Root can feel the pulsing static chortling around their feet. Her throat dry, she swallows and chances another desperate glance at Shaw.

 

She finds Shaw smirking.

 

“Well, I suppose you learned nothing from Icarus then. When you fly too close to the sun,” Shaw says heavily, her breath coming out in short spurts, “you _burn.”_

 

The charge releases.

 

And then without warning, Root feels Shaw pull harshly, _impossibly_ , energy from anywhere she can reach, pulling from the electrically charged floor, pulling from the complacent guards dropping down suddenly to their knees in front of them, moaning with shock and pain. As the men in closest range to them fall first, dying, Shaw extends outward. But this method of pulling, is _taboo_ , is wrong, is frightening, because it’s beyond their control, and Root feels Harold being seized with horror beside her, when the massing of power within Shaw reaches even beyond the men.

 

Around them, _outside_ for yards and yards, she senses life wither, senses thousands of tiny scurrying ants lay still as what little life force they possess are swept away and drawn into Shaw. Millions of individual blades of grass, stemming from the same mother root, shrivel and dry up, unable to desist Shaw’s intent. Worms, parasites, miniscule bacteria that barely manage to survive up here in the North all wilt and wane in seconds, and if Root can feel their crying so _loudly_ and so painfully, she can only imagine what Harold must be feeling in his very core, so attuned he was to the plants and soil.

 

Harold makes a strangled gasp beside Root, and John immediately holds him up as he clutches his stomach and retches dryly.

 

“John,” Harold croaks, franticly, hands shaking with the effort to cling onto John. But John seems to staring at his stomach in surprise, and he is suddenly standing up straighter, and his presence seems stronger somehow.

 

But before Root can even begin to register what is happening, hot strength floods her, Shaw’s richness seeping into their pores, foreign to her system. The invasion into her blood stream is slightly belligerent, but not altogether unwelcome, filling her with potency.

 

Abruptly, Root registers the almost burnt, chocolate-y taste that fills her mouth, inside her throat, and there is a strange tingling inside her gums and jawbone that she wants to claw at. But power is power, and Root finds her senses alert and her wings ready and strong, itching inside, at the ends of her scapula.

 

But Root suddenly knows what Shaw is doing, and she scrambles toward Shaw, trying to stop her.

 

“Sameen, no, _don’t_ -”

 

But Shaw has always been, and always will be, faster than Root. The grace and speed she admires Shaw for in combat is now the thing she laments, a little too late.

 

Because Shaw is shooting Harold and John a familiar look, a look of command, and Root feels large strong palms seize her and hold her back as her eyes widen with shock and horror, frozen in place.

 

More men are closing in, a never ceasing platoon of soldiers, climbing over their fallen comrades.

 

Shaw falls to one knee now, clutching at her sternum, and sweat covers her entire body. Her skin burns red and angry, and Root can see little waves of heat rising up in tendrils over her. There is an alien glow emanating from Shaw, illuminating her skin, until Root thinks she can see through Shaw’s frayed shirt to the tattoos below them, shimmering black as the darkest night. And Root watches with a kind of fascinated horror, as Shaw’s embedded blood-seals break one by one.

 

Ancient alchemic symbols wrap around her body possessively like vines, coupled with scribbled lines with olden Sanskrit that no one alive knows how to read anymore. Pagan circles and six-sided stars line up her neck, and Root knows that there are more shapes forming over Shaw’s back. And then, at last, a print of the original sigil and pledge of the Temple that worshipped and guarded Helios manifests at the bottom of where her clavicles join, right in the middle of her chest.

 

That tattoo ripples on her skin, darker than the rest, and Root thought at first that her eyes were deceiving her, because no, it cannot be, but that tattoo is _moving_. It is writhing and crumpling and stretching, re-aligning itself, and repeating the process over and over.

 

Root darts forward, but one of John’s raven-black wings, dotted with pure white specks and blotches, erupt from his back, curling, and slaps against her front to hold her in place.

 

Shaw doesn’t look back at her at all.

 

Root thinks she’s screaming but doesn’t seem to be able to _comprehend_ anything. There’s wings surrounding her, and she’s furiously trying to fight off the hands hoisting her up.

 

And then, the sudden heat and energy that fills the room suddenly seems to draw back rapidly into its wielder, collapsing back furiously to the center of its implosion, like a star unable to withstand its own compressing gravity.

 

And then, like how all black holes are born, with a blinding light, it explodes like a supernova, breaking through the layers of atoms and molecules and mineral, breaking their metal walls, sweeping them all backward.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am mirroring/ echoing the situation in Shaw's disappearance in S4 :P


	6. Chapter 6

Root groans, and her body feels like it has been hit by a thousand bricks, like the time John and her had gotten into a fight and he had slammed her into one of Egypt’s pyramids from the sky.

 

Hands fumble at her arms and she feels herself being tugged upward. Root blinks wearily, and there is John and Harold, supporting her as she struggles to her feet. There is a ringing in her ears, a throbbing in her head.

 

“What-?” She mumbles, disoriented, before the memory of Shaw’s explosion comes rushing back. She pushes at John’s chest, trying to stumble away. Her bonds are almost gone, disintegrated into sand, sliding down her arms.

 

“Shaw-” The words die in her throat as she looks up at the scene in front of her.

 

White snow stretches from her bare feet only up to a few metres ahead, where it turns grey, mixed with ash and soot. A wide crater in the ground, radius at least one mile across is still smoking.

 

It strikes Root suddenly, that Shaw thought it necessary to give them her power to withstand the force of her blast, granting them the best form of immunity as her atoms recognize and expel each other, so that their damage in the blast would be minimal. Her heart pounds hard in her veins, as she realizes that Shaw’s calculations seem to have been correct. She is relatively unharmed, though she cannot say the same for the humans.

 

Debris litters the area, crunched metal with their burnt screws twisted and broken into pieces with the force of the detonation. There had been an entire facility, Root now sees, an entire laboratory dedicated to this wretched experiment on them. Reduced to smithereens, but even with the size of the crater, it becomes clear just how large the facility had been, how long these men had harboured the dream of finding them for this one singular purpose.

 

Bodies scatter the borders of the crater, some, Root has no doubt, turned to ash. Others, mostly charred and smoking still, and then some more, not yet claimed by death. Root can feel these men alive, weak pulses beating from within their bleeding flesh, but she doesn’t care. With Shaw’s power flowing surely and opulent in their veins, there is little the men can do to harm them now, their weapons obliterated and their remaining number too few. Martine, their commander, is returned to dust. And even if Greer is alive, he would need years to rebuild his army and his equipment, and by then Root would have unleashed her own discharge onto him for daring such audacity upon them.

 

But Greer does not have her attention now, because her eyes rove frantically over the crater and hone in onto the middle of the smoking pile of ash, the smell of singed, carbonized metal, plastic and flesh pungent in the air.

 

In the middle of it all, at the centre of the circle, there is nothing.

 

_No, that’s not possible, that’s not. Possible._

 

Root reaches out, invisible seeking feelers flaring with despair, searching for Shaw’s unmistakable imprint, but there is nothing.

 

And at last, with a strangled yell, she allows her fangs to rip out from her gums, snarling. Her obsidian wings erupt sharply and forcefully, the impact knocking both Harold and John backward.

 

She pulls on the power hiding within her tattoos, and allows them to climb to the surface, raising with it, her Elemental sway.

 

Darkness brews instantly overhead, the eye of the storm directly above Root, grey clouds being sucked into it, swirling in circles. Root narrows her eyes, anger and grief mixing and threatening to overwhelm her, and summons the wind.

 

A swirling column of air starts to curl overhead, slowly funneling downward. She advances on the remaining men, clenching her jaw so hard she fears crushing her own teeth. She hears John and Harold shouting faintly, but the whipping of the wind drowns their voices out.

 

Pine and fir trees shake as their roots are forcefully being ripped from the ground, so strong the gale of her command, flinging snow everywhere, but Root ignores it all. The vortex of the gust finally forms a fierce tornado, stretching down from the dark clouds to touch the ground, but she holds it at bay behind her as she walks deliberately toward the rest of the cowering men, attempting to drag their pathetic, wounded bodies to flee.

 

The next time Root speaks, she does not do it with her own mouth. She manipulates the movements of the wind, turns their violence into an echoing, booming howl.

 

_You men._

_You abominable mice,_ Root hisses with the wind.

_You have one chance to tell me where Shaw is._

 

Root grabs the nearest man to her, the scent of his sweat repugnant, reeking of fear and awe. It disgusts her. She bares her fangs to him, watches his beady little eyes widen in fear, and then pulls his entire body up by the hair on his head. In one swift motion, she twists his head back and rips his throat out with her teeth, blood filling her mouth. She throws his body on the ground, leaving him to drown in his own plasma.

 

Root spits his blood out from her mouth, spits it back out on his dying body. It tastes foul and obscene, of humanity; of _filth_.

 

“Stop, Root. These men are innocent,” Harold shouts over the wind, appearing beside her and holding her arm. She flings his arm away in irritation, not even turning around. _Innocent?_ How dare him step in her way? Him who brought her away instead of toward Shaw? Him who was The Eldest, Mother’s First Born, charged with _protecting_ them all?

 

Thunder roars, and bolts of lightning snap and clash against each other in the sky, wild and savage. Root’s cyclone gains more speed.

 

 _Where is Shaw?_ Root bellows again, not trusting her own mouth to speak. Surely, if she separates her teeth for even a second, then the itch to clamp them onto flesh must find purchase.

 

But the men run and hide, not answering her single, simple question, and so Root grants them no pardon in her scorn. She rips out six more throats before she beckons the twister to come, flinging trees carelessly like they weighed nothing. Rocks lifted do not discriminate bone from metal, smashing into debris and human skulls alike. It takes the lives of the remaining men, but even after that, Root somehow cannot bring the clouds to stop.

 

The tornado spirals out of her control, devastating a path toward no discernable direction, while Root watches with dull eyes. The wildlife flee and cry out, and distantly Root senses a family of foxes hiding in their lair beneath a tree. They shiver together, and the babies cry, but the tornado will take all their lives in a heartbeat.

 

Harold shouts something, but she isn’t listening.

 

It is John who firmly steps in, his own Elemental call stronger than hers so high in the North, surrounded by his beautiful, cold snow. He is no stranger to blizzards and tempests in the heart of winter, and he holds the wind surer than Root, their loyalty to his demand fiercer than to Root.

 

He coaxes her fitful and restless storm down to a calm, bending and intertwining strands of breeze between his fingers. Root’s tornado never reaches the foxes. Root feels the anger leave her in a rush, leaving her empty, and she deflates with a heavy exhale. Her fangs retract, and her tattoos eventually grow lighter, fading back into her skin as her anger abates.

 

She is grateful, that John had stepped in. She would have regretted and mourned for the wildlife later. There is little difference after all, between the wildlife and Elementals. Hurting the biota would have filled her with unimaginable grief, when her mind cleared.

 

“They were innocent lives,” Harold murmurs desolately, his throat full of sorrow.

 

Root laughs bitterly, then.

 

“These men were witnesses, Harold. They know who we are. They are all just Greers in the making. There was no way they were going to escape here alive,” Root says quietly, tiredly, and her eyes well up, fogging her vision slightly. She looks around at the quiet forest of snow and dead things, and reaches out once again, searching for Shaw’s life-force and familiar essence. There is nothing out here but the cold.

 

Root wonders absently, whether she should have disposed of Greer when he learned of Mother, when he was a child of six. She curses the day Mother taught her mercy.

 

Root sinks to her knees then, and digs her fingers into the snow, relishing in the stabbing pain of its freezing burn, anything to distract her from the turmoil inside. The twister raging across the North Pole just a second ago, seems to have taken its closed, low-pressure circulation and swept itself into the area where she thinks her heart might have once been.

 

Her wings rest softly on the snow behind her, slack and limp. And then finally, Root allows herself to cry.

 


	7. Chapter 7

For ten days and ten nights, rain fell without reprieve, across the entire globe. The dark clouds wept for her loss, the sky shedding the tears Root cannot.

 

Sea levels fall drastically to accommodate this, and weather specialists are the first to notice. The sun continues to burn, but it falls out of time and balance ever so slightly, and Root stares up at the sky so often with worry. She can feel its slight pulse, beating irately and teetering without its master’s guidance. Shaw would be unhappy that no one is watching her beloved.

 

Humans, so preoccupied with the climate change, took a while longer to notice the inconsistent movements of the sun, its uneven burning of nuclear fuel, but the astronomers, with their monitoring devices, do eventually pick up on the irregularities.

 

And then, predictably, humans wreck themselves with worry and speculation of The End. They panic and fight among themselves, and Root watches with a disdainful eye.

 

Root was not so much impressed with Man as she was contemptuous of their advancements. She does not like the uneasy feeling when dealing with them. Their nature is confusing and _wrong_ , and she’s seen her fair share of the cruelness they breed. Mother has tamed her somewhat, and she no longer feels the need to bring tsunamis whenever she sees corruption, but she is not altogether sympathetic.

 

But after Shaw’s demise, her wrath does not care to please Mother. She wrecks devastation across Earth as she hunts for any piece of Shaw lingering in their mortal world, leaving floods and storms in her wake. She hears planes go down in the clouds she brings, but she doesn’t care. She hears tell of the destruction near the coast of the Pacific islands after she has raced through, but she gives no quarter.

 

Men scurry like ants in their fear. They start ungainly riots. Crude simpletons they are, worrying about The End, about the Second Coming of The Messiah, when they should be worried about her fury, Root thought viciously.

 

She had reached out, scrying hopelessly for Shaw, but found nothing. She’d called for Mother many times, but there has been no response.

 

It has been two moon cycles, when Root retreats to the top of the world, hiding in nature, hiding in an empty cave at the highest point of the Himalayas. Here, Root feels closer to the Great Beginning, and closer to the sky, to the sun, to Shaw.

 

She is discouraged, but she denies the possibility of Shaw’s death. They are Elementals. They are Immortal. She refuses to accept that Shaw could be, wholly, gone.

 

Root wonders why Mother ignores her, wonders whether Mother is angry with Shaw, with her unethical drawing of the power around her as she helped them escape. But She shouldn’t be angry, because Shaw did it to save them. Save her. Because Martine had wanted to take Root first, and Shaw _couldn’t_ allow that to happen.

 

Root feels her chest heave with emotion, her ribcage rattling as she tries to breathe through the ache. Her eyes burn. She didn’t know she still had the strength to cry. Shaw had done it to save her, Root repeats to herself helplessly, both moved and wishing otherwise.

 

She’s covered in snow, but she has learned tell the difference between the snow and its harbinger. Root feels a chilling friendly tickle up the knucklebones of her spine, far before she heard the soft padded footsteps behind her.

 

“Did Mother send you?” She asked, her voice as cold and bitter as the seasons the man behind her brings wherever he goes. The footsteps stop a good distance from her, and she was thankful that John didn’t press in. He says nothing for long moments, and with every breath she hears him breathe, she knows a flurry of little snowflakes are falling around them.

 

Any other time, she would have swooned at its loveliness and interminable grace. Every snowflake is never quite the same, and John spends his years trying to get to know them all, Root knows. Any other time, she would have taken a light jab at him for being so sentimental.

 

“She’s worried about you.”

 

“Then Shim should help me,” Root snarls, whipping around.

 

Now John Reese was not a mild soul, and carrying the force of wind, snowstorms and blizzards, he has seen mankind in their most desperate, freezing as the cold doesn’t so much take their lives as bury them beneath icicle by icicle. But the redness he sees rimming Root’s eyes and the darkness he finds in them rival even the most desolate of the humans. Power roils from her, not so much ripples as much as waves, crackling in the air, charged ions surrounding their master, barely contained.

 

It was no shock to see power, not when you have been around for millennia, not when you weld such supremacy beneath your own skin. But John had not known that they were fallible to such strong emotion. He grew fond or harboured distaste for certain things, but never with such intensity. He wondered what that felt like. Even now, his surprise at finding Root this way, was muted.

 

“Your duties have been neglected. The deserts in Africa are dry and cold,” John says quietly, but he may as well not have bothered. They are alone, here. “I tried to help, but I couldn’t get the hail to become water.”

 

 _It wasn’t warm enough_ hangs between them, neither willing to voice that last part.

 

“Not to mention the floods in Southeast Asia- Thailand, was it? It’s upsetting the balance, Root.”

 

“I don’t care, about the fucking _balance_ ,” Root spits, running a hand through her hair angrily. “I care about finding Shaw,” she adds pointedly.

 

A silence stretches between them after Root’s angry admission, punctuated only by her harsh breathing.

 

“Why are you here, John?” She spits finally, angry and frustrated.

 

His next words are deliberate and measured.

 

“You’re sure she’s alive?”

 

“Yes,” Root says simply, and she realizes, she truly believes it. She _knows_ that Shaw is somewhere, waiting for her to come. She knows this as sure as she knows the rain.

 

John and her stare at each other for a long, long time- in mortal measurement. A day goes by, the sun eventually setting and the night passing over to the sunrise, but to them Elementals, it is but a fleeting second, especially in a moment as severe as this. Finally, John must have seen something in her eyes, because then he allows his wings to emerge. They sprout elegantly; the familiar white flecks much like his elemental snow, marring the sleek leathery surface. He unfurls gently, without rush.

 

“Then what are you waiting for, Root?” He smiles at her, “Harold thinks he’s come up with a plan.”

 

* * *

 

 

John leads her to The Levant, to where the mortals now call Israel, on a strip of deserted beach.

 

Root lands sharply, feet slamming hard on the terrain as she crouches down on green grass. The ground shakes with the force of her landing, air expelled from beneath her in a rushing vortex as her wings beat its descent. John lands smoothly behind her.

 

Harold hovers at the edge where grass meets sand, looking out for an acre leading up to the first caress of the sea on land. Root retracts her wings, and hears the rustle beside her that John is doing the same.

 

“I would appreciate it, Ms. Groves, if you do not try and crush every blade of grass here,” Harold says, turning to her with a disapproving eye. She ignores his lecture.

 

“John says you have something,” she responds instead, narrowing her eyes. He turns back to gaze at the ocean, and says nothing for long moments. Root grits her teeth, and controls herself, her respect for Harold stopping her from pressing.

 

“Do you know, Root,” Harold says carefully, “how our seals first came into being?”

 

“Mother crafted them,” she answers back impatiently, almost snapping.

 

“Well, then you know how long Mother carried them Herself before She gave them to us.” Root says nothing. She knows all these already, and she doesn’t much care.

 

“For eons She held onto them, balancing nature by Herself. It was a tiring task, and it became difficult to hold them all together if She couldn’t focus Her attention. Furthermore, with the developments of the planet, and the rise of Man, it became more and more difficult to keep the balance.” Harold shoots her a _bear with me_ look, so Root listens on, clenching her fists.

 

“And then She chose us, to bear these gifts to help her, but there was another factor involved.” Root blinks.

 

“We may be born pure Elementals, but we are not molded from the same clay as Mother was. She couldn’t so easily seal elemental power into us at our birth. She couldn’t bind their power and brand them into your skin, if no one _understood_ them. So She gave away pieces of information to Man, and hoped their combined strength would provide Her with the energy needed to trap our elements into ink.”

 

“Magic requires an audience,” John says thoughtfully. Harold smiles, and says, “This is no ordinary magic.”

 

“Your own tattoos contain the First rain dance, do they not? Yet Mankind learned parts of the rain dance later, those of the Zuni, and other tribes in Native America. And knowledge of the circulation of precipitation spread was eventually given to Man, although again, not fully. Your tattoos are not unconnected to the Mankind you so despise. Mother gave Man the information, slowly, delicately.”

 

Root frowns. She had not thought to think more about this before. “Why would She do that?”

 

“ _Faith_ ,” Harold says warmly. “It is their prayers, their beliefs, their reverence of Mother Nature that provided Her the strength to seal our powers. It is Man’s continued ability to _believe_ in the spiritual, in a higher being than themselves, that keeps providing us the strength to control our elements. We sustain them as much as they sustain us. Our life-blood is intertwined.”

 

“Is there a reason why you’re telling me all this?” Root asks, her mouth suddenly dry, a flicker of something in her chest. She is afraid to name it for hope.

 

“What is a shepherd without him sheeps, Ms. Groves? Even a God must have his followers for him to be a God.” Harold soothes the invisible creases on his pants.

 

“Mr. Reese is begged to be merciful during the cold seasons. He is presented with offerings, beseeched by many tribes still, to spare their young and old during the harshness of winter, for fear of Mother stealing away lives whilst them backs be turned.”

 

“I,” Harold goes on, “nurture the greens of the earth; bring the harvest, birth the food that the world needs. I am constantly remembered in farmers’ prayers, thanking me when they have a bountiful season. Agricultural conglomerates toast in my honour when they churn out rice grains by the billions.”

 

“And you, Ms. Groves, surely you must know, how many keep you in their prayers, afraid of the drought in the dry lands, tundra and desert. Millions in Africa pray for clean water to fall from the sky every single day.”

 

“But the sun has been around, solid and steady, for so long that the people of the modern world have come to take it for granted. It rises as it does every morning, and it sets as it does every night. Sameen has been impeccable in her duty, a true soldier,” Harold gives Root a small smile at this, one that she doesn’t find the capacity in her heart return, her heart pounding so wildly.

 

“And the people have forgotten to pray, unlike the days of Ancient Greece, or even further; the Mayans, where they _worshipped_ the sun, giving it that much more power.”

 

Harold turns fully and looks directly into her eyes now, and Root is suddenly struck by the thought that Harold does not look like a man to be trifled with. His meekness and gentle demeanor, are in this second, nowhere to be found. Root smells fresh grass in the air, as though Harold is inhaling and exhaling so strongly as to work up the soil. The waves at the end of the beach gush harder, slapping about on sand, as though mirroring the rising wave inside of Root’s chest.

 

“If Sameen is still alive, then her body and spirit is weak. She requires the prayer of her people. If the people have forgotten the sun, and if there is to be any hope of granting Sameen strength, then we must _remind_ them.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This & the next chapter kind of comes in a pair, so I've decided to upload them together tgt >:D

So it begins, their improbable task of getting the people to remember the sun.

 

It is difficult, for the modern world that Root has ignored for so long has changed much since she spared it any attention. Man care about technology these days, putting their beliefs in science, empowering progress for themselves, and neglecting the spiritual.

 

Shamans, witch doctors, sages; they are all a dying breed. Root thought she’d found a group of people who could possibly of service, but they called themselves hippies, and when they danced around a bonfire, it was not a prayer to the Gods. They smoked a plant and became drowsy and hungry, and then engaged in amorous activities, and Root huffs in annoyance.

 

She tries to look for Beltane’s celebrators, but there are many more interested to celebrate the Winter Solstice than Beltane, more concerned with winter than summer, worrying more for the cold than the heat. Shaw was too good a soldier, breeding complacency in the mortals with regards to the sun, Root thinks, and she has never been more irritated with that fact.

 

The monks in Cambodia, India, Tibet, Japan and China are spiritualists, and listen to the mournful wailing of the wind, and Root had been optimistic. But they bend most to Mother’s will, and their faith in her so strong they smile and believe that all things have their destiny, that _this too shall come to pass_.

 

So they do what they can. Harold and John have duties to tend to, and Root stops wrecking storms, to calm the weather specialists, in hopes that they will turn their attention to the solar patterns, which grows more erratic as the days pass. She does her duty religiously, and tells herself that she must keep the rain at faultless timing and precision, so that the men will stop worrying about it. The less attention she draws, the more likely they will notice the sun.

 

John gets Lionel to help, and though Root has never paid Lionel much attention before, she is grateful that he does not turn them down.

 

He is foremost, her brother-in-arms, even though Root has always mocked him as an Elemental for only holding sway over water at the ends of the ocean, and never its vast middle. Root had used to delight in reminding him of her stronger authority on their shared subject of water. He rules over the moon, pulling and pushing the tides to his fancy, but to Root he was overshadowed all this time by the sun, which Root only had eyes for.

 

But Lionel is kind when Root pleads with him to try, and she considers revising her view of him. He tells her that influencing the orbit of the moon is much easier than trying to influence the sun, but he does try to tug on the sun’s gravity, attempting to shake it even more out of balance for people to notice. She thanks Lionel for his efforts, and remind him to carry out his own lunar calendar with accuracy so as to not distract Man. He grimaces and sticks his tongue out at her, saying in his throaty voice, “Just because you gone loco doesn’t mean I have.”

 

Root goes deep underground, even though the chance of finding Shaw is slim here, too dank and cold for her liking. But information travels faster in the tunnels under the earth, the three little moles burrowing and scurrying around rapidly hears all sorts of things that may be helpful to them. Daizo, Daniel and Jason are busy delighting obsessively in their treasure trove of gemstones and minerals when Root interrupts them. It is hard to get them to care about anything more than the unending bending and molding of rock to form metals, or to shape the residue of layers and layers of sediment into crude oil.

 

But they have always been like her little pets, and she is fond of them like such, frequently visiting to play with them and gaining their reciprocal affection in return. She also suspects the three Elementals all secretly have a crush on her, so it is no trouble at all for her to get them to assist. They promise to contact her immediately should they hear any rumblings in the earth.

 

And no matter the amount of times Root has called, Mother still doesn’t answer her pleas.

 

The days pass slowly and agonizingly, and still they hear no word of Shaw. Man’s worry about the sun bears no effect, tinkering with their inventions and their tiresome technology in high astronomy towers and underground testing facilities. Their scholarship does not find a cure for the unstable sun, and they do not discover the necessary prayers in their hearts.

 

 A moon cycle passes, and then another, and then another.

 

And like every storm that once brewed terrifyingly, grand and majestic, it tapers off to a light rain, and then to a drizzle, and then to nothing, like the hope inside of Root. The hope of denying fate, of defying Mother Nature Herself, wanes inside her chest, and eventually, it quietens down, until there is a dull, hollow space where Root thinks her heart no longer beats.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Root is surprised, and then enraged, when she discovers that John Greer is still alive. She doesn’t know how, but she grows more desolate every day with no sign of Shaw, even with her best efforts, and this provides a convenient outlet for her fury.

 

Root tracks Greer down, and it’s safe to say things don’t go as planned. It is a cool day when she approaches him, standing alone in a graveyard amidst falling yellow and brown leaves, courtesy of fall. His back is turned to her, and he wears a coat and a gentleman’s hat for subterfuge possibly, but she can smell his repulsive scent even from a distance.

 

“Did you think, for a moment, human,” Root asks, coming up behind him, her light tone belying her thirst for vengeance. “That you would escape me for long?” She will not address him by the name given to him by his birth mother, she will not do him the honour. He does not turn around, and she cocks her head. She has waited a long time for his death, and there was no hurry to rush now.

 

He is looking up at the sky. She doesn’t bother. She already knows how hazy the air has become, already knows how dark the sky looks these days. Without the sun’s consistent gravity, the earth’s orbit has fallen out of axis, fallen into a wider orbit. It has made the days and nights cooler, and affected the ecosystem, the balance. Dust lines the air now, making it hard to see far, or breathe without coughing. Root sees people wearing masks out their houses now. The calendar no longer bears a reliable measurement for Man, and their watches are out of time. She does not need to gaze up into the sky to know this. She has already worried enough every day.

 

“Do not test, my patience, human,” Root says finally, “I asked you a question.”

 

Overhead, the clouds gather, mirroring Root’s warning. 

 

“These tombs,” Greer pauses, gesturing to the graveyard, “my men in the North died for my cause, and these graves were arranged for by their families. There are no bodies.”

 

“I was kind,” Root says. “Their families should be thankful, that I returned them to the Mother earth. I could have eaten them, and their souls forever lost.” He turns around to face her now, a weary look in his eyes, as though he too, had lost something. It annoys Root, as though his loss could ever be compared to hers, to the world’s.

 

“Did you care for these humans, then?” She asks, smirking, wanting to provoke him into anger. It was more fun to hunt when your prey fights back.

 

“These? No. But I have family, as we all do. I never planned for any of this to happen. I wonder, would you spare my family, after you have claimed my death?” Root wants to murder them all, but she will not let her anger get the better of her. She will spare the innocent. Mother has taught her that much, at least.

 

Root looks up at the overcast sky.

 

“There will be no difference. The sun wanes. She will die soon. The woman your men murdered?” Root spits bitterly, “she was the sun’s warden. Your family will be dead within the year.” At least Greer has the decency to look startled by this. Root scoffs. Humans. They never know what’s truly at stake. All they do is play with their toys. They destroy and destroy, without consideration of the consequences, and after that they regret and they regret.

“If the sun dies, we will all perish,” he mumbles thoughtfully.

 

“Then know that it is by your hand,” Root snaps, teeth bared. She tires of their conversation, and seeks now to put an end to it. Her hand darts forward, too quickly for Greer to react, and her fingers close around his neck. She can feel every beat of his tiny little heart under her thumb.

 

A church bell goes off nearby, beside the graveyard. She doesn’t squeeze her nails down. She considers her prey for a long moment. All men are fallible, given the right motivation.

 

“How would you like,” Root asks, clicking her tongue, “to save your family?” She wonders if he will reply impudently. She digs her thumb in a little more, a warning, should he put one toe out of line. He strains against her hold, and struggles to find words.

 

“How?” He croaks weakly, and then Root relaxes her grip. She withdraws her hand and steps backward, smiling coldly, as he coughs and regains his breath.

 

“Curious, isn’t it?” She asks, repeating his own words back at him. “How Man suddenly become repentant, when death is nigh?”

 

“I never meant to wish death upon the world. It was just good business. We are running out of sustainable energy, and I merely wanted to-”

 

“Your reasons do not interest me, mortal.” Root snaps again, and stares at him impassively. Greer looks old now, and haggard. He does not look as terrifying as he once did, holding electrical stun-guns and nets above her two seasons ago in the North Pole.

 

“You have led hundreds at your behest, have you not? You have once convinced men to pledge their loyalty to your misguided cause to hunt us down? People listen to you, and obey?” He rubs his neck still, and nods.

 

“Then you will speak at my command.”

 

“And what is it that you want me to say?”

 

Root smirks.

 

“You’re going to have a change of religion.” Root’s smirk widens into a grin. “You’re going to start a church. And you’re going to pray to the sun god. Any sun god you wish. And you are going to deliver followers.”

 

“And how will I,” he seems at a loss for words, almost embarrassed, “call you, when it is done?”

 

“You may not,” Root answers coolly. And then she turns and walks away.

 


	10. Chapter 10

There were a few embarrassing hiccups at first, and Root was annoyed and exasperated when she realized why. Losing a multi-billion corporation due to an accident in the North Pole resulting in many deaths did extraordinary things to one’s credibility, and the people thought him driven mad by the loss. They mocked Greer with derision, and he grew less certain of his ability to effectively motivate, until Root, fed up, decided to step in.

 

She gives him little bits of information of the sun, from what she can remember of Shaw’s tattoos, and it doesn’t escape her that she is doing exactly what Mother once did.

 

It is then, Root thinks, that she earns Mother’s forgiveness. Mother floods her ear with the information she needs, and Root’s eyes well up, feeling less alone in her quest, feeling Mother’s benevolent caress as surely as she feels her little baby droplets in the rain. She thanks Mother for her help, and determination renewed, she sets out to pen down the long forgotten secrets.

 

She uses those exquisite and priceless secrets to make a bible for the followers to worship. She makes Greer predict floods and earthquakes very publicly (the media is a frightfully helpful tool), and then she makes sure to deliver them, with help from Elias. 

 

Elias was not thoroughly pleased to be bothered, but agreed only if he could dictate the size and force of the earthquakes. He is very picky about the semantics of tectonic plates. He also makes a bargain with her, and Root now bemoans having to play chess with him whenever he requests, which is ridiculous, because Elias takes ages to make his moves (Harold once waited two whole decades for him to move a pawn). Root is generally not that patient, but she is desperate enough to make poorly contracts, and he isn’t the worst Elemental, as far as Elementals go. 

 

It takes some time for momentum to build, but once Root has Greer start the first five churches, it easily snowballs. He is an appealing speaker, convincing men to listen, Root will give him that. She has not forgiven his transgressions against her kind, but at least he fears The End like all mortals do. It helps that the Sun is now frighteningly off balance, although it hasn’t yet started the flickering of a dying star, and men clamour to be saved by God should The End come.

 

All in all, it goes better than Root expected, even though Greer is revered as a messiah after six months (Root rolls her eyes). But she doesn’t care- she has hope again.

 

* * *

  

It takes a whole year, but come the next summer, Root feels the glow of the equinox and knows the most important summer day is approaching. Midsummer will be the best chance they’ve got if she ever wanted to see Shaw again.

 

So on the day of the first of two equinoxes in a year, Root orders Greer to start preparations for the celebration of the Summer Solstice. Root doesn’t need to depend on calendars to know time, but Man takes some convincing to assure them that Greer has got the date right (It is the earth that is timed wrongly, now).

 

And on the day of the Summer Solstice, where the planet is at its maximum axial tilt, and the sun is at its highest point in the sky as seen from Earth, Root spreads her wings. At sunrise, she goes back to the mainland of East Asia, to the mountain clearing overlooking the main city, to the last place that she had been alone with Shaw.

 

It smells like it always has, lush and warm. Root waves the clouds and wind away, making sure the sky is clear. She wants to be able to see the sun, today. And then, she sits on the plateau, crosses her legs, closes her eyes, and waits.

 

Root is calmer now, her fury dissipated in the year that has passed. She is busy and occupied with her mission, and hasn’t allowed the obsession or grief to govern her. This is the first time she has sat still to meditate for quite some time, and she strangely feels peaceful, even with all the anxiousness and excitement and hope and anticipation curling in a mess inside of her.

 

Here, in East Asia, Root doesn’t watch if Greer is keeping the celebrations on schedule back in America. She doesn’t count how many churches are praying to their sun god in how many countries today. She doesn’t count how many human souls are holding faith. She has done all that she can. If this doesn’t work…

 

Root watches the sun rise and present itself proudly in the sky, and then she watches the sun bow and exit when it finishes its performance, and still, nothing happens. But she meditates for an entire day, breathing in perfect harmony with the world’s soft hum, and she thinks that she is ready to be at peace, to let go.

 

And then, only then, when Root is about to release her stubborn hope to the breeze at dusk, about to accept that _this too shall pass_ , or accept that _destiny works in mysterious ways_ , only then, does she hear a faint rustle behind her.

 

It is soft footsteps, the swishing song of wings being folded and closed, that reaches Root’s ear first. She takes a deep breath, and then turns around, slowly, tentatively. The sight that greets her is marvelous to behold, and her breath catches in her throat at the wonder of it.

 

Black wavy hair frames twinkling dark eyes, loose and untamed, falling freely around small but muscular shoulders. Tanned arms and legs draped in a long, antique looking tunic, wings folded but not retracted, Sameen Shaw stands three feet away, cocking an eyebrow at Root, as corporeal as any being Root has ever seen.

 

They don’t say anything, not as the clouds move slowly in the sky, not as the squirrel in a tree nearby finds a nut, cracks it open, and devours it. They don’t speak for a long time, until Root finds her voice.

 

“Hey there,” she says, almost whispering, her voice a stranger to her own ears. A corner of Shaw’s lips rise upward, and she tilts her head.

 

“You’ve lost weight,” Shaw says.

 

“You’re wearing a tunic that I haven’t seen since Ancient Eygpt.”

 

“I suppose we’ve both seen better days then,” Shaw smiles and says teasingly. Root cannot help the grin that’s spreading on her face, cannot help the warmth flushing through her chest, cannot help the blooming relief in her stomach.

 

“No Sameen," Root says, very carefully, "I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen a better day." And they both know exactly what she means. Root thinks she’s never seen Shaw as beautiful as she is right now, with nothing but an old brown tunic and wings glittering in the night. 

 

There is an almost tangible heat in the air, the one that inevitably comes with Shaw and _oh, how Root has missed it_. She feels like she is drowning in a shower of molten rock, and she has never cherished it more. She feels light-headed and giddy.

 

There had been a million things Root had wanted to know before, things that seemed very relevant at the time. But the thoughts had escaped somewhere, and staring into Shaw’s familiar warm gaze, she finds herself unconcerned. There will be millennia for her questions later. Time, is immaterial to Elementals, after all.

 

Shaw hums and makes to move closer, and Root makes space as Shaw shifts to sit beside her on their little plateau. Their hands rest on the earth at their sides, an inch away from the other, but they don’t touch.

 

Shaw examines the back of Root’s hand, at the tattoos from Root’s wrist that trails a path to her fingertips, and looks at her questioningly. Root glances down at the black ink that has never sunk back into her skin after her power had been ripped from her.

 

“I never quite got that bit back,” Root says mildly, “the seals won’t mend. Its energy has been returned to Mother Earth, I think. Or to Man. I’m not sure.”

 

“Well, good,” Shaw says, her lip twitching, “your ego was making you insufferable.” But there is a sparkle in Shaw’s eyes that lets Root know it is only in jest.

 

Root makes an agreeable sound, too busy was she cataloguing Shaw with her eyes.

 

“You did something, didn’t you?” Root thinks that Shaw sounds impressed.

 

“I did some things.”

 

“Doesn’t somewhere require rain right now?” Shaw asks softly, as dedicated to duty as ever, even as Root moves one palm up to cup Shaw’s cheek. It was warm, warmer than any skin Root has ever touched. Root inhales gently.

 

“Yes.” Root beckons a tiny cloud- a flurry of droplets directly over their heads, just because she’s feeling playful and weightless all of a sudden. Shaw gives her an amused face for the silly drizzle. “John says that dying can make you thirsty.”

 

Shaw hums again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have included an epilogue after this, but the story is essentially done!
> 
> It's been a wonderful ride writing this, and thank you all for your viewership. It's been an absolute joy.
> 
> P.S: Special thanks to those who have followed this story since Chapter 1 you guys know who you are.


	11. Epilogue

In the heart of the Galapagos, at the confluence of three oceanic currents, the land lies peaceful. The wildlife flourish, the currents brewing a wonderful concoction of various marine life. Seismic and volcanic activity breathes with Mother’s heartbeat, a steady rhythm in the heart of all Elementals.

 

There is the occasional odd tour of visitors delving into the islands, a conservation park located on Isla Santa Cruz, and several research facilities, but other than that, the Galapagos remains mostly undisturbed by Mankind.

 

High up on one dormant volcano, the weathering of rock has carved an opening into the side of a cliff, forming a small cavern that has since been filled with effects to make it a cozy little fort. Heavy clouds that have gathered outside the cavern for hours are starting to slowly lift and dissipate.

 

The sun was blazing, making Root squint and frown in her resting state, turning her back to the shine. She makes an irritated huffing noise of discomfort, and curls up further into a mess of finely woven tapestry that she was using as blankets (Its an old habit, one she never quite managed to shake).

 

Although the sun was glaringly bright at the entrance, the angle made it unable to penetrate the comfort of the inner cavern, and this high up, the wind is liberal and the air breezy, a caress on the skin. Root’s Elemental nature helps, making the inside of the cave damp and slightly cooler.

 

Root flexes her toes, curling and uncurling them, cracking a bubble in her knuckle. The snapping noise wakes the warm body that she is currently trying into burrow into. Fingers, drowsy from rest, absently traces the slender bones of one of Root’s outstretched wing and she shivers, humming in approval. The touch becomes teasing, lightly scratching at the sensitive leathery surface on the ticklish underside right as bone meets velvet.

 

“Again?” Root mumbles into a warm neck, amused, stirring awake. Shaw hums lazily. Root leans closer to nibble on her neck, moving a leg to drape across Shaw’s hips. Shaw touches a particularly delicate spot on her wing, and Root twitches, moaning softly.

 

“At the rate this is going, our sabbatical will need an extension, sweetie. Mother will not be pleased,” Root says, but there’s a little smirk on her face, and she continues her light nibbles and kisses, trekking a path to Shaw’s jaw. She kisses Shaw on the mouth, then props herself up on one palm, blinking sleepy eyes open to look at Shaw. Shaw’s hand leaves her wing, both hands coming to wrap around Root’s hips and ass, moving downward, even as Root shifts to overlap Shaw’s body with her own.

 

“I was missing for a year. A couple of days aren’t going to matter very much, I think.”

 

Root widens her eyes in mock dismay.

 

“Insubordination,” she scolds. “Gross negligence. Dereliction of duty. Disgrace and shame onto-” Her tirade is interrupted with an inhale, as Shaw touches her inner thigh, rising higher.

 

“You wanna finish that sentence?” Shaw says, raising an eyebrow. Her fingers trail higher. Another finger traces down the middle of the ass cheeks, moving closer to the ache building inside Root.

 

“I want you to finish _me_ ,” Root almost moans as Shaw reaches her destination, dipping her head for another kiss.

 

“You’re wet,” Shaw says between deep kisses, her breathing becoming slightly shallower, the only sign she was as affected as Root was. “I thought I was the one who was corrupted. What will Mother say?”

 

Root makes an indecipherable noise and rolls her hips, her eyes half-closed, as Shaw slips a finger in. The urgency that had gripped Root in the aftermath of finding Shaw had been spent and faded, and she now takes the time to savour every stroke and touch. Her rocking above Shaw is unhurried as she relishes in the onslaught of pure sensation. Shaw doesn’t mind- she likes to watch Root unravel. Root tilts her head back, pressing her hip closer, her body curving into a graceful arc. Shaw leans up, taking a nipple into her mouth as Root continues her slow grind.

 

A tongue swirls around, and Root makes another soft whiny sound, her hips trembling as Shaw slips another finger in. Heat, almost unbearable heat that radiates from Shaw is heady and drowsy on Root’s senses, on her breast, on her hips, and inside her.

 

“You forgot one.”

 

“One-One what?” Root rasps.

 

“Your fascinating indictments against me. You forgot one.”

 

“And what would that be?”

 

Shaw shifts to press even closer, wrapping an arm around Root’s back, running fingers over where skin molds into velvet wings. A shiver runs a stream down Root’s spine, a small whimper pulled from her lips.

 

“Overindulgence,” a low rumble against Root’s throat, “in the sins of the flesh.”

 

The shift in position allows Shaw to press deeper, and an approving groan rends from Root’s throat, loud and wanting. Shaw presses teeth to Root’s neck, but doesn’t bite down.

 

“Yes,” Root has no idea what she’s agreeing to, except that she _must_ agree. She is so very agreeable, right now.

 

“Right _there_ ,” she manages to breathe, encouragingly, the end of her sentence punctured by another sigh. Shaw complies and leans up even further so that she is now sitting up, and Root’s hands automatically comes to tangle in Shaw’s messy hair. Her thighs spread across Shaw’s lap, quivering.

 

When she comes, the release takes her slowly, a rising climb of ache. It doesn’t crash over her, but pours and spills, trickling from her scalp down to her toes, drowning her slowly. It stretches on and on and on, a melting of her bones and her soul and her heart. She dissolves and turns to molten liquid, coiling around and above Shaw, her lips parted in a silent benediction.

 

“I’m hurt. And insulted,” Root mumbles, after her ragged breathing slows. She folds her wings behind her back and lean forward. Shaw relaxes back on the tapestries lining the rocky floor, sliding downward to lean on her elbows, pulling Root to her chest.

 

“Are you?”

 

“I don’t think you’re as into this as I am.” Root clicks her tongue reproachfully. “I don’t recall a _single_ one of your tattoo seals breaking.”

 

Shaw smirks, remembering how Root had come the first time, and then the second, and then the third. Sporadic tattoos that splay the entire of her body had been raised to the surface on her cool skin, unbidden as Root lost control, her body tight and writhing and desperate. Leathery wings had spasmed and twitched erratically, unfurling and furling like the fisting of Root’s hands on Shaw’s skin. Outside, a storm had brewed, flashes of lightning illuminating Root’s skin, pale where it wasn’t streaked with black intricate designs, at the height of her desire. Shaw thought the whole thing made Root look wild and beautiful.

 

Chuckling lightly, Shaw’s chest vibrates as Root starts licking at her searing skin again. Root’s tongue is cold and soothing against the heat of her own skin, hotter now than it has ever been.

 

“Blame yourself. You started some weird sun occult in the world. I feel stronger than ever. It’ll take a lot more for you to pull my ink out.”

 

“Is that a challenge I hear?” But Root is grinning at Shaw’s collarbone, and she doesn’t want to break the moment yet.

 

They breathe in the silence for a while, as Root regains her composure, groaning into the crook of Shaw’s neck, “I don’t want to go to work.”

 

Shaw makes an amused sound.

 

“You’ve been spending too much time with Man. You’re starting to sound like them.”

 

“Yeah well, they’re not so bad,” Root says evasively, going back to suckling at Shaw’s neck. Shaw tilts her jaw down at Root, surprised.

 

“What? They saved your life. And I spent quite some time in the past year among them. They make nice boots. And leather jackets. They’re not so bad.”

 

“You’re joking.” Shaw lifts Root’s head up, a thumb under her jaw, fingers curved around her neck. She stares into brown eyes still hazy with sleep and sex, assessing.

 

“You’re not joking,” Shaw concludes after awhile, one side of her lips tugging upward. It’s a little late for Root to join the party, but at least she seems to have learned a few valuable lessons in Shaw’s absence. “Well, as long as you don’t try to keep one as a pet.”

 

Root snorts.

 

“I’ve been tamed,” Root concedes, nipping Shaw just once on her bottom lip. “I take my work very seriously now, too.”

 

“Does this mean, when our… retreat is over, you won’t be taking your little deviations to visit me anymore?”

 

Root grins, a mischievous glint in her eye, and a muscle in Shaw’s cheek twitches.

 

“ _Oh_ _no_ , Sameen,” Root whispers teasingly, a low timbre at Shaw’s lips, “You won’t be getting away that easy.”

 

The daylight over the Galapagos is bright and cheery, and some clouds grow heavy, finally relenting against the weight, causing a light precipitation to dribble over the islands. It’s enough to cool the air, cajoling a light breeze into being, but it doesn’t put a damper on the sun’s strong rays.

 

Nothing blocks out the sun these days.

 


End file.
